


7 years old

by leticiasales



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: <3, F/M, One Shot, Songfic, thoughtful Euphemia, thoughtful Fleamont
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 07:52:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5700718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leticiasales/pseuds/leticiasales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, James Potter was seven years old.</p><p>An one shot loosely based on the song "7 years old", by Lukas Graham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	7 years old

**Author's Note:**

> Hello :)  
> I hope you guys enjoy this one shot dearly. I am already sorry for any grammar, syntax or spelling mistakes. English is not my first language - portuguese is.

James Potter once was seven years old. A magical, quick-thinking, funny seven years old. He was the most loved kid in all England. In all Great Britain. In the whole wide world.

His mother was 62 years old. His father was two years older than her.

Euphemia and Fleamont’s biggest fear was, for sure, that they would both die before they could show James how much they loved him. And their star kid would be left alone in the whole wide world, unloved, unimpressed.

So once, when James Potter was seven years old, his mama told him:

— Go make yourself some friends or you’ll be lonely.

And James heard his mama. But none of the friends he made when he was seven years old got even close to the ones he had the pleasure to meet in his first Hogwarts year. Euphemia contemplated James’ letter, tears in her eyes. _“Mamma, I am no longer lonely. Sirius Black is the bestest of the best friends, and he is also my best friend, just in case you did not catch that yet”_. She reread that letter several times: every single time she worried that she would leave him too soon, she sought that letter and was reassured by 11 years old James. He had the “bestest of the best friends”. He was not lonely. He heard her.

When he got back for Christmas Break, Fleamont smiled lightly to his son, after hours of listening to James’ monologue about this annoying little girl, called Lily Evans, who dared to be friends with this weird Slytherin boy and did not want to have anything to do with him:

— Go get yourself a wife, James, or you’ll be lonely.

It never escaped the father how hard James laughed at the idea of marrying Lily Evans. Way too hard, he thought.

When their kid returned to school, and they were once again left alone, the elderly couple constantly talked about James and the letters the son sent twice a week. He was always going on and on about this group of friends of his, and how it would make him so, _so_ happy if he could bring them in for summer break after his second year in Hogwarts. _“Just for two weeks, mama, please. You probably know Sirius’ family. He says they are as crazy as one can be, but I told him you are the sweetest mother ever and would definitely convince his not-so-sweet mother. Papa, you will love Remus, he is so smart, so kind, and just a little bit weird, but that is okay, I guess. His mom is sick a lot. And also Peter. He knows all the good jokes. We can practice quidditch together, papa. I think that I am going to be a quidditch player, like you sometimes wished you had been. I loved being a chaser this year. I think this is the thing I like the most._

_In other notes, that redhead girl I told you about was significantly less annoying this year”._

Euphemia Potter sometimes worried about her son, even though he was not lonely anymore. It was a big, big, complicated, world. James was the only son of a pureblood couple, he was supposed to be safe. Fleamont was simply a retired potion crafter. She was nothing. He was supposed to be safe, but she knew deep in her heart that he was raised better than that. James Potter was fifteen and was as flawed as fifteen years old are supposed to be, but Euphemia knew that James was way braver than she ever was and ever would be. He would stand tall. He would fight.

And it worried her sick that she wouldn’t be able to protect him. It worried her _sick_ that his letters contained now more questions about complex defense spells and potions than unimportant gibberish about quidditch. James Potter was growing up, and while she was truly happy that she was healthy enough to be there for him, Euphemia Potter didn’t think she could live with the idea of losing her only child. Her star kid.

_“_ _We won the Quidditch Cup this year. I’ll probably become Quidditch Captain next year, can you believe it? But I am not as happy as I thought I’d be. Something about the glory, mother, just always seemed to bore me. Only those I really love will ever really know me. Things are getting heavy in Hogwarts as well. I think it is probably time to grow up, mother. You will probably stop receiving the angry McGonagall letters about your childish, foolish boy. I have no time for jokes._

_Who am I kidding? Scratch that._

_I will always have time for jokes, ma. But I should probably study more. Learn all I can. I will need this N.E.W.T knowledge of the next two years in whatever future awaits for me._

_In other notes, that redhead girl I told you about is making me barking mad._

_I kind of like her, but she kind of hates me. 10 more points to growing up, I guess?”_

The maturity of that letter, mixed with his usual goofy manners, made Euphemia’s heart twist in her chest. She read it out loud to Fleamont, and he looked at her, the spectacles hanging on the tip of his nose.

— He will fight. You know it, right, Euphemia?

She nodded her head once, battling an internal fight: was she proud or was she worried? It took two years for the elderly lady to understand that she could feel both proud and worried all at once. He was graduating, her star kid, Head Boy, Quidditch captain, betrothed to that annoying redhead he always went on and on and on about. And he was definitely going to fight.

Both Euphemia and Fleamont were gone not long after James got married at age 18, only a kid, trained to kill and to die since he was only thirteen. _“My love for her cannot wait, mother, we already faced Voldemort once. I don’t know how long we can pull this out, but I know I want to marry Lily Evans. I hope you can understand that, ma, and I hope you will give me your blessing. You know me. I will marry her with or without it”._

He had friends, thought Euphemia, and would not be lonely nor alone in the face of darkness and death.

He had a wife, thought Fleamont, and would not be lonely nor alone in the face of darkness and death.

Once, James Potter was twenty years old. His story got told. He had thrice defied Voldemort, the invincible one, and got out alive each and every time. The quidditch player that was born to be safe. The head boy that was pureblood, and smart, and witty, and an animagus at age 15, and that had the misfortune to be in love with some muggleborn girl that would be the death of him.

James Potter was twenty years old and could only see his goals. He did not believe in failure, never did. He had Sirius and Remus and Peter, and Lily and little Harry, the light of his life. He feared so much for that little boy, just a few days old, born in the middle of the worst war of the magical history. He smiled a little too dearly at the memory of his father and mother, both lost to dragon pox two years before. They were already so old when James was born.

He, on the other side, was so, _so_ young. 20 years old. Orphan and married for two years now. A father. Locked inside this goddamn house in this goddamn city, trying to protect everything he loved from something that was way more powerful than he would ever be.

Soon James would be 30 years old. His story would be told a thousand times more. He wondered, quietly, what he would be doing of his life. An auror, maybe, giving some use to this terrible experiences? Or a quidditch player, like he and his father before him had wanted so, so badly, when he was still safe? Like he would already be, if life was good and fair and simple?

The former head boy knew nothing about life. He had his wife, his annoying, brilliant, delicate, redhead wife, and their kid. Their kid with her eyes, and his hair, and absolutely no idea of the sick world he was brought into.

Sirius, Remus, Peter. The best friends someone could ever dream on having. Sirius was blood of his blood, for all he cared for. Some of them were still out in the war, seeking glory or whatever good that could be found in that dreadful battle.

Soon enough, he would be 60 years old. His dad only had seventy five years of a good, good life. He hoped that Harry visited him once or twice a month after Hogwarts. He hoped that Harry would choose Christmas breaks at home, close to him. James Potter was only twenty years old, but he, as his mother before him, wondered: how am I going to take care of my kid if I am not alive?

James Fleamont Potter took his only child out of his crib, those green eyes staring him back in startling intensity.

— Harry, my dear. Once I was seven years old, and your grandma Euphemia told me that I should get myself some friends or I would be lonely. You are only one, but I really want you to do just the same. I can't promise you to live. I wish I could, but I can't.  So go make yourself some friends, Harry James, or you will be lonely.

**Author's Note:**

> If there are any obvious mistakes, please warn me through a comment. It's the first time I have ever written a whole story in english.   
> I hope you guys enjoy reading "7 years old" as much as I did enjoy writing it. I hope it is the first of many oneshots, shortfics, songfics or fanfics that I post here on AO3.   
> Comments would make me very happy indeed.


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